


Lick of Frost

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cold Weather, F/M, Mission Fic, Snuggling, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9605858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: “I am not tired.” Gaby says defiantly, tilting her chin up and watching him follow the line of her throat with his true blue gaze. He swallows hard and she watches his fingers twitch, watches his head dip down as if searching for his next move. Slowly he turns his head back up and she watches his golden hair reflect the dim light of the lamp. She steps into his space, between his knees and lets her toes hit the bottom edge of the overstuffed couch. Her breath hitches when he lets her touch him. The tip of her calloused index finger traces his scar and he moves to lower his gaze, but she catches his chin with her knuckle and makes him look at her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Anonymous asked: i know this isn't on the prompt list but gallya+ your feet are cold?? cuddling gallya gives me life** Here you are anon, I do hope this meets your expectations. Thank you so much for the prompt.

Bucharest is so cold it steals the breath from her lungs. No amount of vodka can keep her warm. The bottle hangs limply from her fingertips and she sways slightly, knees brushing the edge of his and just like that his game of chess is forgotten. He wasn’t winning anyways. Ever the strategist he lets hands fall to his thighs, fingers curling and tapping against his knees. He’s counting the seconds on the clock, willing the rush of heat away from his cheeks when she bumps him softly. Gaby has a plan of her own. No more near misses and kisses, no light and airy exchanges of affection, she wants something much more than that. The tips of her toes touch the edge of his boots and the bottle swings softly back and forth before he takes it from her. Illya’s fingers close over hers and he pries the glass away.

“It is time for bed.” Illya breaks the silence of the hotel room. There’s nothing more than the silent sound of snow tapping on the windows of the small rental that serves as their fifth or sixth, honeymoon getaway. Gaby has lost count at how many times she’s worn the little bugged ring, of all the false pet names she gives him when they’re out on a mission. Bucharest is no different.

“I am not tired.” Gaby says defiantly, tilting her chin up and watching him follow the line of her throat with his true blue gaze. He swallows hard and she watches his fingers twitch, watches his head dip down as if searching for his next move. Slowly he turns his head back up and she watches his golden hair reflect the dim light of the lamp. She steps into his space, between his knees and lets her toes hit the bottom edge of the overstuffed couch. Her breath hitches when he lets her touch him. The tip of her calloused index finger traces his scar and he moves to lower his gaze, but she catches his chin with her knuckle and makes him look at her. 

“Gaby,” His voice is hoarse, thick with his accent, and she lets her thumb slip up to his bottom lip. She’s kissed him plenty of times, deep in their covers when the time called for it, but she’s never kissed him for herself. He’s never let her, always shying away, putting her to bed with her little drunken snores, leaving her to dance alone in the sheets while he hid away in his own. Gaby’s thumb pulls gently on his lower lip and she bends at the waist to chase her thumb, her lips pressing over his.

Illya groans. His hands instantly jump from his knees to her hips, wide-set hands covering just about every inch of her. Illya’s thumbs brush over the satin waistband of her oversized pajamas and her hands cover his cheeks then slowly slip down, where he jumps at the sudden shock of cold from her. The kiss is broken and Gaby sucks in a sharp breath, “Illya?” 

“You are freezing,” He murmurs quietly moving his hands from her waist and up to her elbows. He drags his fingers down her arms and captures her wrists, drags his callouses over her palms and lets his fingers lace with hers. Illya is a furnace in comparison to her. He radiates warmth against her and he slowly rubs his thumbs over her knuckles, leans in and cups their hands together. Before she can protest, he leans in and blows warm air over her calloused fingertips. She wonders idly if he minds her rough hands. Years of working on the guts of cars has made her dainty features, rough and tough to the touch.

“It is snowing outside.” She finds her voice, her lips are still awfully close to the crown of his head. 

“Outside yes, but we are not outside now.” Illya’s breath ghosts over her fingertips and her skin pricks with gooseflesh. She’s too drunk to come up with a retort, her tongue feels heavy in her mouth. Her fingers curl and touch just the edge of his warm lips and her heart skips a beat at the contact. He hesitates then kisses the tip of her fingers. It’s a soft gesture that has her head swimming as he moves to stand. There’s almost no space between them. His chest brushes hers on his way up and he doesn’t let go of her hands just yet. With a careful step he guides her back and then forward once more, around the couch towards the master bedroom. All week in Bucharest, he’s been taking up residency in the guest room, curled up on a small bed while she’s been left to freeze in one two sizes too big.

“Where are we going?” She asks coyly, drawing her fingers over his wrists, pressing her palm over the faceplate of his father’s watch. The familiar ticking of it rushes up her arm and she lingers there as he guides her across the cold hardwood floor and towards the jamb of the door. Gaby leans back into the hold and Illya draws his hands across her ribs now, pressing her back into the wall. He stoops low over her, drags the tip of his nose along her exposed collarbone, taking in the sweet scent of french perfume and sharp tinge of vodka.

Illya’s hands map out her ribs and drag lower, he grips at her hips and pulls her up, hands palming down her oversized pajama bottoms and down. He cups the back of her thighs and she sways. The world is spinning for her, this is the closest they have ever been and her stomach churns with too much alcohol and not enough fresh air to breathe in. Her nose is filled with the clean smell of Illya, the smell of warm leather and gunpowder lingers around him when she wraps her hands around his neck and draws her hands into his hair. She ruins his meticulous hairstyle and lets her nails scrape along his scalp just to hear him groan into her neck. He lifts her fully, draws her into his chest and walks her to the bed. He walks agonizingly slow, drops her on the very edge and kisses away her protests with warm lips. Illya draws her legs up and his fingers wrap around her dainty ankle, smoothing lower to her frozen feet.

The kiss breaks again and Gaby whines at the sudden loss, her voice is slurred, “Why?” She asks, tilting her head, trying to chase his lips with her own but Illya leans away. He looks down with concern wrinkling his brow.

“You are like ice.”

“I’m just cold Illya, it’s fine,” She bats the concern away, pulls on the back of his neck to bring him back in for another kiss but he doesn’t budge. Instead he draws his hands over the tops of her feet and pushes her further on to the bed. Without warning, he pulls himself on the bed and wraps an arm around her. The covers get shifted and before Gaby can get too excited, Illya pulls her back into his chest, presses her feet between his legs and clamps down. He is hot to the touch. His skin scalds her and she finds herself not protesting, but sinking into the feel of him. His hips press tightly into hers from behind, she can feel every inch of him. A little drunken smirk tugs at her lips and she resists the urge to shift closer to him as he warms her feet, then drags his hands over hers to warm her fingers.

“Is not safe to go to bed cold. Could get hypothermia.”

“Inside the safe house?” She blows out a soft laugh and he smiles against the back of her neck, lips turning against her skin.

“Trust me, Chop Shop Girl.” Illya’s breath ghosts along her neck and she shivers, making him tighten his grip on her, “I cannot let my wife catch cold before we meet famous forger tomorrow.”

Gaby blows out a quiet sigh, “Don’t you mean fiance?” 

Illya’s fingers find the little pearl ring on her left hand. He toys with the band for a moment, twisting it back and forth with quiet thought. He is curled around a beautiful woman like a tsar, delightfully spoiled with her attention on him. So he lets himself fall victim to their own guise, lets himself dream little more, “We have been engaged enough, yes?” 

Gaby wants to protest, wants to twist in the sheets and face him, but something stops her. She lays back into the warmth of him and nods quietly against the pillow. She falls asleep there, wrapped up in his long limbs and wakes curled into his chest with her fingers under his cable knit sweater.

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own, I apologize now for any big glaring ones. I was too impatient to send this to a beta. Thank you for taking the time out to read this. At this time requests/promtps are closed, I'm a little too overwhelmed at the moment. Thank you for understanding.


End file.
